The City and Its Uncertain Walls

by Haruki Murakami

“Your shadow will pass away before long. When the shadow dies, dark thoughts vanish, too, leaving behind a stillness.”

“I want to be yours,” you said, almost whispering it. “Completely, totally yours.” I choked up. Deep inside me, someone was knocking on a door. They were on some urgent mission, pounding on the door over and over. That sound rang out, hard and loud, in an empty room. I felt my heart in my throat. I took a deep breath, trying to somehow push it back where it belonged.

“Sometimes I feel like I’m the shadow of something, of someone,” you said, as if revealing a vital secret. “My real self isn’t here. It’s somewhere else. The me that’s here looks like me, but is nothing more than a shadow projected onto the ground and walls … I can’t help thinking that way.”

I gazed into her eyes. Like searching the depths of a clear mountain spring. And I said, “You’re not her. I know that. The you who lives here doesn’t dream, and doesn’t love anyone.”

What is real, and what is not? In this world is there really something like a wall separating reality from the unreal? I think there might be. No, not might—there is one. But it’s an entirely uncertain wall. Depending on circumstances and the person, its texture, its shape transforms. Like some living being.